


Path To You

by sewer_seance



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald
Genre: F Scott Fitzgerald is tired and gay, It’s heckin gay, Jay isn’t too bright, M/M, Modern Era, Poetry, Romance, Romantic Nick, Takes place over several years, Writing Nick, i just wanted to write a really gushy romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-08-25
Packaged: 2019-06-14 05:32:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15381765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sewer_seance/pseuds/sewer_seance
Summary: While at Oxford, Jay Gatsby finds a poem hidden between the bricks that has gone unnoticed for years. That one poem sends him on a treasure hunt over several years as he collects the poems bit by bit, one leading to the next. Oxford. Yale. New York. With each poem, Gatsby falls a little bit more in love with this mysterious author. All he can hope is that when he finds the final poem, he’ll find the poet along with it.





	1. Of Fireflies and Whiskey

No one but Jay Gatsby could have noticed it. Anyone else rushing through the hallways of Oxford were too wrapped within themselves and workloads, trying to get to their next class on time. But Gatsby had always been a little different in that respect. Observant to a point of obsessiveness, little details rarely escaped his attention. So naturally, he spotted the little triangle of aged paper stuck between the bricks with ease. With people parting around him mindlessly, he tenderly worked the folded piece of paper from its shelter of god knows how many years. The prospect of mystery thrilled him as he unfolded the paper. In the weak light of that grey English afternoon it was harder to make out the faded ink. Nonetheless, Gatsby breathed out slowly at the neat penmanship.

  
It was a poem. A poem perhaps written by a student from decades ago. Not likely. The paper wasn’t quite as old as he had first thought. Still, the thought of another hopeless romantic from another time standing in this exact spot was very appealing. Finally this secret Byron’s efforts would be discovered. And Gatsby had the honor of the discovery. Gatsby loved romanticism, but was a little dense about poetry. That wasn’t going to stop him enjoying the scant passage.

_What has become of those nights_  
_Of fireflies and whiskey_  
_What has become of those days_  
_Of cotton skies and lazy eyes_  
_What has become of those twilights_  
_Of iron marvels and whispers on the seine_  
_If only to turn back the sun_  
_To find those nights of fireflies and whiskey_  
_Of cotton skies and lazy eyes_  
_Of iron marvels and sweet whispers on the seine_

The stone floors of the university slipped away, replaced with the languid blinks of lightning bugs hopping across an overgrown field. Too soon he blinked back to the reality of the ancient library. Gatsby pocketed the paper on instinct. Perhaps back in his flat he could travel to this alternate reality again, a better reality. He rushed home, running into more than a few people in the process. Excited by his find, he burst into the flat in what he imagined looked like a triumphant entrance (it was not). Notes and books from earlier scattered across his bed were pushed to the side. Once all settled in, he pulled out the poem again.

  
Textbooks aside and long forgotten, he gently thumbed over the creases of the little poem, feeling warmer than he had his entire time in England. The poem was home. Not his home. God no. Not that hell hole. No, it was just the idea of a home. A sense of security after a whirlwind life. Hopefully more than just a dream one day. Gatsby turned the paper idly, wondering if one day was sooner rather than later. He smiled to himself, thinking that somehow this poem was a promise of sooner directly from the universe. He jolted out of his haze when he saw something he hadn’t seen before. 

In the corner, nearly indiscernible, was a set of coordinates. Gatsby recognized them for what they were in an instant, the previous sea man that he was. Coordinates to where and what, Gatsby had no idea. But he knew that was were he _had_ to go. No matter the cost or the reward. He jumped up, a late night energy surge fueled by bad decisions coursing through his veins. He would leave the next morning, no questions asked. This was the adventure of a lifetime and he wouldn’t miss out. It was to this frenzied Gatsby searching for a suitcase that his flat mate came home to.

  
More specifically, what poor Francis Fitzgerald found was a pair of legs sticking out from under his bed, ass in the air. Like any good man, his first reaction was to scream and trip back into the wall. A rather sickening thud emanated from under the bed, followed by the softest, “ _Fuuuck_ ”. Gatsby crawled out from his flat mate’s bed, the two holding each other’s gaze for an awkward few seconds.

  
“...Jay.”

  
“Francis.”

  
“Care to explain?”

  
“I’m.....going on an adventure.”

  
“Ah yes. And my bed is the perfect place for adventures?”

  
Gatsby finished crawling out from the bed and scooted past Francis. “Yes, for you and Ernest maybe.” Francis’ sputtering followed Gatsby out into the common room. “Have you seen a suitcase? A duffel bag would even work.” Gatsby called, checking the closet for the fifth time.

  
“Ernest and I are just friends! And you know I’m dating Zelda!” Francis wasn’t prepared to let Gatsby walk away from his jibe at him so easily.

  
“And who were you out drinking with tonight?” Gatsby tried (and failed) to fend off an itchy winter coat.

  
“.....Ernest,” Francis mumbled, pulling the fearsome coat off of Gatsby. “And there’s a bag on the top shelf.”

  
“Bless you Fitzgerald!” Gatsby cried and went to work feeling around the top shelf. Eventually, with a harmless whap, the inconspicuous bag tumbled onto Gatsby’s head. Francis followed Gatsby into his room to watch the ensuing hurricane of clothes flying into the bag.

  
“So, you mentioned an adventure?” Francis cocked one eyebrow at Gatsby. This wouldn’t be the first time a mania had taken over him. He was a young man with big ideas about life and what his ought to be like. Francis had listened to his wild stories, listened to the wild rumors. More than anything else, he found it amusing how seemingly wild and insanely “romantic” Gatsby was. There had been many times Francis considered Jay would make a wonderful character in a future novel.

  
Gatsby paused in his senseless packing antics to fix Francis with a firm smile. “Why yes I did, Old Sport!” He carefully proffered a small, folded square of paper from his shirt pocket and handed it to Francis. Francis eyed Gatsby skeptically as he unfolded the now precious poem. Gatsby bounced on the balls of his feet waiting for Francis to finish. Being a writer, Gatsby craved his thoughts.

  
“And?” Those were _not_ the thoughts Gatsby wanted.

  
“Well? What do you think?!”

  
“....I think it’s a poem.”

  
Gatsby jabbed his fingers at the numbers at the bottom of the page. “Know what these are?”

  
“Not really, I’m not too fond of math.”

  
“ _Coordinates_!” Once again, Gatsby was disappointed at Francis’ lack of understanding. And enthusiasm. Francis just blinked at him and Gatsby could tell he was trying dissect him as a character again. Motivations, themes, whatnot. Gatsby sighed and took back his poem. “I’m going to the coordinates!”

  
“But why?” Francis couldn’t help the snort of laughter.

  
“Why exactly!” Gatsby ignored the snort and the tone. “Why was it so important for the author to put down these coordinates? What’s waiting at the end of the road? Is it the place with the ‘cotton skies’? whatever it is, it must be special,” Gatsby gestured passionately as he spoke. For a fleeting second, Francis could see the appeal behind this nonsensical “adventure”. Gatsby had a way of infecting others with his passion, his hope for humanity. It was all in the smile.

  
“Well, God knows you can’t be stopped once you’ve started,” Francis sighed, leaning against the doorframe, watching Gatsby throw in more personal belongings. “The call of the unknown is irresistable once you’ve heard it; it either drags you to your fortune or your doom. Just, be careful of your hubris, Jay,” Francis said in that tone people have when they think they’re deep and philosophical, but they’re really just pretentious.

  
“My hubris?” Gatsby urged. He loved when Francis got “deep”.

  
“You want to see the good in everyone. You have so much hope for the world, you refuse to see the ugly. When the ugly comes along on your ‘adventure’ and it will,” Gatsby tried to protest but Francis held his hand up to cut him off, “make sure you open your eyes to see it. When I write my novel starring you I don’t want it to end badly.” Gatsby rolled his eyes. Francis had been talking about his novel since their first year living together.

  
“Alright, I’ll watch my hubris,” Gatsby rolled his eyes again. Well, less rolled his eyes and more rolled his entire head in exaggeration.

  
“Don’t be a pill.”

  
“Or you’ll kill me off?”

  
“Now, yes, I will. And it’ll be completely preventable and very upsetting.”

  
“Thanks, Old Sport.”

  
Francis whirled out of the room, but not before Gatsby saw his exasperated smile. But Gatsby had bigger problems than Francis planning his literary demise. He had to finish packing, then buy a ticket, and figure out where he was going. Though, he should probably figure out where he was going first. But unlike Francis, Gatsby didn’t have the funds for a laptop. Also unlike Francis, Gatsby had no problem borrowing what wasn’t his if it got him what he wanted. His flat mate was sat on the sofa, watching one of his adored classics, leaving the way perfectly clear for Gatsby to swipe his laptop. It was hard to find in the mess that was Fitzgerald’s desk. Being a writer, you would think he would be a little more organized. “This is probably why you aren’t published yet,” Gatsby muttered pushing aside a gargantuan stack of loose papers. Eureka! Gatsby slipped the laptop off the desk.

  
“Thanks for letting me borrow this, Old Sport!” He called as he shut his door behind him after the successful heist.  
“Sure,” Francis hummed not really paying attention anymore, too involved in Elizabeth Taylor’s acting.

  
Alone once again, Gatsby typed in the coordinates. Shock isn’t the right word for what he felt. He wasn’t expecting anything, so he really couldn’t be shocked. But while he wasn’t expecting anything, he wasn’t prepared for this. He clicked his tongue and sucked the inside of his cheek. Not quite the exotic adventure he had in mind, he was nonetheless buzzed at having a location. He quickly bought the cheapest ticket on the cheapest airline to Connecticut, USA. He clicked the laptop shut and returned it to the now sleeping Francis’ lap. Gatsby didn’t sleep that night. He had to finish packing. And when he had, he still couldn’t find rest. Each time he closed his eyes, the prestigious name of Yale burned the back of his eyelids, and the words from his poem bounced around his head. 

 


	2. Do You See

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gatsby follows the paper trail to Yale, then to Chicago

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Francis comes back for a hot second which is my favorite second. Also, do I need to warn for swearing?

  
Gatsby wasn’t sure what he expected to do once he got to the Yale campus. It was huge, and the poem could be anywhere among spoiled students and grand stone. He tightened his bag shoulder strap, not quite ready to admit defeat. But a voice in the back of his head, that sounded suspiciously like Francis, told him that defeat was near regardless. He said a quick thank you and goodbye to his Uber and stepped out onto collegiate soil. Well, pavement.

  
It took a while to breathe it all in and the ridiculous task he set for himself. Of course, now he realized how silly he’d been, chasing random coordinates on a random paper. The idea had seemed so appealing back in his flat. Now, so far from home, he was finally hit with the impossibility to find...whatever it was. He wasn’t even sure what he was looking for. But it was too late to go back now. He wouldn’t allow Francis the satisfaction. Stealing himself, he began to walk the well worn paths of the campus.

  
Yale was its own mini city, older than old, filled with the youths of the future. Gatsby almost lost himself just in the architecture of the overly grand buildings. He wandered around, not knowing what he was looking for; only knowing that he would recognize it when he found it. In his pocket, his thumb rubbed over the well loved paper of the poem that brought him here. He kicked a stone along the way, he search becoming less thorough. Gatsby reduced his search to a simple stroll among the still green trees. He blended right in, even with him smelling like plane and looking highly disheveled. Most the other students looked disheveled to some degree.

Jay walked the entire campus, weaving his way up and down. He walked it twice. The early evening sun unpleasantly reminded him that he hadn’t thought far enough about a place to stay. He should probably focus more on looking for a hotel but he was still in the middle of his last search. Besides, he hadn’t the money for any hotels near Yale. No, it would be much better if he could somehow find a place on campus. Students fell asleep in the libraries at Oxford all the time. Surely Yale couldn’t be that different. Gatsby steered himself in the direction of what he thought was one of the libraries.

  
Monster shelves hid him from anyone else in the library, thick with books both old and new. He perused the shelves lazily, knowing that after all this time it would be unlikely to find anything. With only the darkening sky outside a large window to tell the time, he slowly made his way to a back corner. Most of the books here were neglected photo biographies; made irrelevant by the internet. Some were old yearbooks and the like, filled with century old faces. Others depicted historic events from all over.

  
Eventually his selection and reading led to a lazy grazing as he dragged his fingers across the spines, not really seeing their titles anymore. He sighed into the undisturbed dust of the years and the silence. It was much harder to keep the flame of the search alive when it seemed to have ended before it really began. Jay hated to admit it, but he would have to return to Oxford eventually. He couldn’t search all of Yale, and even if he did, he would have no way of knowing if he had found whatever he was looking for in the first place.

  
His fingers caught on a spine sticking out a little further from the rest of the books. He tilted his head to read the faded lettering: _The War to End All Wars_. Intrigued, Jay decided it couldn’t hurt to flip through one more book before finding a spot to hide away for the night. It took some tugging, but he finally yanked it out. When the book pulled free, a solitary scrap of paper fluttered to the ground: a paper that had been stuck between the untouched book and the shelf. Jay bent down to pick it up, figuring it was some old library or reference card left here ages ago by some frazzled student with coffee for blood. When he got close enough to see the writing, his hand froze just short.

  
Jay had read the first poem enough times to recognize that elegant scrawl anywhere. Reverently, he scooped it off the ground, taking his time to read the new poem.  
  
_Do you see_  
 _One in thousands_  
 _Do you see_  
 _Names like stars_

_I am there_   
_One more in thousands_   
_Impartial hands cover loud thoughts_   
_I am there_   
_Waiting for eyes_

_Do you see_

Jay read it over several times through. The meaning didn’t come as clearly as the first one, which only led Jay to believe it was that much more powerful. He loved the small stanza, the few words that still seemed to pack enough punch to knock the wind out of him. This paper had been creased many times too but not from careful folds. Starbursts branched all across that had then been smoothed out. At some point the paper had been crumpled, straightened, crumpled again, to finally end straightened. Jay smiled to himself, playing the scenario in his mind.

  
The faceless poet would scratch their head, shaking in disapproval. _No. Not good enough. It’s too….nothing._ They would crumple it up and discard it, whipping out a new page. After a few moments of creative inactivity, or perhaps guilt, they would reach over and straighten out the paper again on the edge of a table. Once they saw what they had written they would rather angrily decide that _Yes, it’s better left crumpled_ and ball it up once more. But then growling at their own indecision they would return it back to the original 2D, if not a little deformed because _I’ve already written it so might as well let it be._ So Jay smiled to himself, liking to think that he knew his poet a little better.

  
He was about to pocket it when, in true oblivious Gatsby fashion, he finally noticed in the corner a set of numbers. Another pair of coordinates, different from before. His heart began to thud, things starting to make sense. It was a trail, a scavenger hunt, poem leading to poem, taking him around the world. He would be damned if he didn’t follow it through. At the end, he might finally meet the secret poet, a person who he was developing a quick but deep infatuation with.

  
He almost laughed aloud in triumph. His story wouldn’t end here! Fitzgerald was wrong! Gatsby would be sure to call him the next morning, inform (boast), and then head straight off to….the coordinates.

***

It was five minutes before his alarm went off when his phone began to quack, a predicament that would make any person murderous. When Francis picked up his phone, the sun hadn’t really risen yet. Instead, the sky was that sad white color, trapped somewhere between the brilliance of dawn and the sober ness of night. He more or less grumbled something along the lines of hello and was met with one of the most obnoxious sounds.  

  
Laughter, boisterous and haughty, clanged into his ear. With a start, he held the phone away from his face.

  
“SUCK MY DICK, OLD SPORT!” He heard what sounded like Jay on the other end cackle before hanging up. Francis closed his eyes for another minute before his alarm began to trill. Directly by his ear no less because he neglected to put his phone back after the call.

  
“Ohhhh, I’m definitely going to kill him off.

***

Windy City _indeed_! Gatsby had been much more excited when he had found out where this set of coordinates lead to. Bus tickets were cheaper than plane tickets and Chicago was a great deal more interesting than drafty collegiate halls. However, the wind had completely slipped his mind. And his coat was packed in the depths of his bag.

  
Jay made quite the sight. Unwashed, unkempt, but with the brightest smile in the platform, he almost fit in. In his hand were the two poems, clutched tight. He followed more exact instructions through skyscrapers, through slum bits, through business centers, all while fighting the wind. The streets began to warp into nice pavement, cleaned for the most part. All around were fancy high rises only meant for housing the one percent. Gatsby loved the rich sectors in cities. Elegant yet so cold, he belonged with them, to give them light they sorely needed. He rounded the corner and came upon a ridiculously pedicured park. Jay didn’t need to double check to know this was it. His poet had an affinity for nature if the first poem was anything to go by.

  
The park was lovely. Trimmed. Neat. Unnatural. It felt wrong which, to Jay, was somewhat humorous. To be created for one purpose only to fail in the only purpose who had been given. It was funny when in reference to the park. Beyond that...he didn’t want to think too hard about that. Heaven knows how many times he’s sought for purpose only to come up short. But now, _now_ , he had his poems and his lovely poet.

  
It didn’t take him long to find it. He was getting better at this poem hunting. After walking around for a bit, he stumbled upon a lake where children would take model boats, couples could take pedal boats which happened to be stored in a boat house. Jay made a beeline for the building, built to resemble a romantic stone cottage or something of that style he supposed. He checked the old walls for crevices, openings, even loose rocks. Which of course his funky little poet hid the poem behind a loose rock in the back corner of the house.

  
Time had not been as kind to this poem as it had been to the others. But that’s what happens when you decide to hide a poem outside in a wall for years. Why his poet didn’t realize this, Jay didn’t know. They certainly seemed smart enough to realize the risks. Or maybe that was exactly their intention. Whatever the original reason, it ended up in Gatsby’s hands. He placed himself pleasantly under a tree where he could view the entire lake and enjoy this next little clue as to who is darling poet was.

_The path home is broken_   
_Too overgrown to find the way back_   
_The path forward doesn’t exist_   
_What once was clear dims to black_   
_All cords holding me down threaten to break_   
_The strain of years proving to ache_   
_Let it dim_   
_Let it break_   
_I cannot vanish_   
_Though my memories tarnish_   
_Though my goals crumble_   
_Though my dreams fade_   
_Your arms hold me down_   
_Arms I haven’t found_   
_Arms I haven’t felt_   
_But arms I will feel_   
_Arms of a You, yet to be met_   
_It is you_   
_Dearest you_   
_Darling you_   
_Only you_   
_The only path I need_   
_The path to you_

These poems, no matter how many Gatsby would discover, would never cease to clench his heart. Yet this one felt different. It felt as if the poet knew that someday Gatsby would find these poems and follow them back. This poem was for Gatsby and Gatsby only. Only he could really appreciate it, truly understand it. They were waiting for him. His poet was waiting for him! And the shorter the wait the better. Smile so wide it made his cheeks ache, he checked the corners for the familiar numbers. There was nothing. A tight cold clamming up his heart, he flipped the page.

  
No. No this couldn’t be it. It couldn’t be over. Not now! The coordinates were in there somewhere, Jay just wasn’t looking hard enough. But no matter how many times he flipped the page, reread the poem, and searched every inch almost in an assaulting way, his situation remained the same.

  
The coordinates simply weren’t there. The path was over.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry I took such a long break on this one. I have no excuses: I just didn’t write.   
> Also semi cliffhanger? I don’t know. Don’t worry, it’ll get better. It’ll get worse first, then it’ll get better. 
> 
> As always, I am a comment addict so even if you just want to say hi, feel free!


	3. It Is You...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The path is picked up again, and this time Gatsby reaches the end.

Seven years. It was seven years since he sat under that tree by the lakeside. Not that Jay was keep track of the passing of time or anything. He wasn’t. He was Jay Gatsby now, renowned entrepreneur, too busy for wild goose chases.

He still kept in contact with Francis, even though the worst pain of his failure seven years ago was having to return to that flat. Francis had been smug at first, but when Jay stopped smiling so much and became quiet, Francis was more than a little concerned. He invited him out to movies with Zelda, or to drinks with Ernest, all of which only made the situation worse. Eventually, he thought it best to let Gatsby mourn his adventure in peace. Jay never talked about it and it drove Francis wild not knowing what had happened. Still, he refrained from pushing. Soon, it became the two weeks that never happened. Neither mentioned it. Why bring up something that never happened? It didn’t take too long for Francis to actually forget, wrapped up in his own problems. But Jay still held onto the poems, both in the back of his mind and in his nightstand.

And now seven years had come and gone. Francis had finally written his book. There was one particular character named James Gatz, eerily similar to Jay when he had been younger. Less eerily, poor James died in the end. No mystery in the authorial decision there. Jay kept a signed copy in his office at all times. _Suck your own dick ~ Francis_. It was a great icebreaker. Especially in the high pressure New York environment.

Jay stood in front of his vast bathroom mirror, much too luxurious for a mirror. He smoothed down the lapels of his suit once more, although the silk was already perfect. Jay had nothing against parties. He loved them. Just not the overly stuffy ones. And this one was going to be overly stuffy, full of those brim with money instead of people like him who worked hard for every cent. They were his people, but not. Still, it was a dinner for the company to broaden its horizons and, being a key player, he had to attend. His boss, Mr. Wolfshiem, has made that _very clear_. They had rented out a large ballroom in the plaza. It was Jay’s job to make sure that the investment didn’t go to waste. By the end of the night, they should have several new clients. Jay sighed as he wondered where the beauty of life went. He hadn’t paid enough attention while it was slipping away. Now it was gone, replaced with deals and bribery.

He crossed the room to his bedside table, where he still kept those poems from long ago. Jay would read them in moments like this, when it was hard to see why he had become this man, all gaudy and fake for society. The poems were his only sanctuary. As if reading them made him better, more like the bright eyed young man he used to be. He was still young, but felt the weight of a hundred years in his soul. The poems were his last connection to that hope of youth. Seven years and he still wasn’t ready to let go.

Jay folded the last poem and hid it in his inner breast pocket, a reminder through out the night that he wasn’t a dirty business man, but just a hopeless romantic at heart. With no one to announce his departure to, he left unceremoniously into the night and into New York.

After a really detestable subway trip and some confusion at the front desk, Jay walked into the splendor of the ballroom, all gold and shine. It was a lot of higher ups he didn’t really know. The only thing that kept him afloat was the weight of the poem in his pocket. Nod your head. Shake hands. Smile. It was all the same, and very easy to go into autopilot. At least the food looked good, but he wouldn’t have a chance to get to it for at least another two hours. He spotted his boss just across the way the same time that his boss noticed him. Meyer Wolfsheim crossed over with broad steps, large but cold smile on his face.

“Gatsby!” he exclaimed, clapping his shoulder and steering him through the crowd, “May I introduce to you Mr. Tom Buchanan and his lovely wife, Daisy!” He squeezed Gatsby into his side before letting go. Jay knew what it meant: these were high profile target clientele. Time to dazzle. The couple before him seemed mismatched. Tom, the husband, was a brute by sheer definition of the word. What he lacked in brains he made up for in muscle, which was saying something. The man was a mountain. True, a bit of a saggy mountain but a mountain all the same. “Mr. Gatsby,” Tom crushed his hand in a moist handshake. Jay resisted the urge to wipe his hand on his pants after he was released.

“Pleasure. Daisy, I assume?” Gatsby turned to the wife. She was an entirely different story. Daisy was just a slip of a thing, especially compared to Tom. Her features were soft, everything about her demure and quiet yet regal all the same. “It’s lovely to meet you,” she whispered, gently taking his hand and holding it for a moment. Her eyelashes fluttered up attractively up at him. Gatsby backed up with a cough, unsure of her husband’s reaction to her foreward ways. Tom wasn’t paying attention. Wolfsheim had engaged him (trapped him) in a conversation on business. Both were too busy to pay any mind to either Daisy or Gatsby. Daisy looped her arm in his and ed him away.

  
“Walk around with me? These events are so dull if you don’t have anyone worthwhile to talk to?”

“Do you not prefer your husband then?” Gatsby could tell just from looking at him that Tom wasn’t the best conversationalist. However, he didn’t want to get in trouble with him or Wolfsheim for stealing away his wife. Apparently his assumption on Tom was correct for Daisy laughed low and bitter.

“God no, Mr. Gatsby. Already you’re much better than he is.” Daisy plucked an appetizer from a passing tray. “You see Mr. Gatsby,” she mused between delicate bites, “I’m quite stuck on a path. At one time or another I had the chance to leave it. But it’s too late for me now. This is the path for me, I suppose the only one I could ever really take,” she sighed.

Gatsby’s steps slowed opposite to his speeding heart. “A path, Ms. Buchanan?” She hummed in agreement. Silence fell between them as Gatsby thought how to phrase his next question. He had to be careful not to give too much away while still confirm his suspicions. It was probably just a coincidence, especially since he had the poem on his brain anyways. But in the unlikely event that she was indeed who he thought she was…

“Have you ever thought of..going back? Surely, if this isn’t the ‘path’ you wanted, you can still detour?”

Daisy sighed and patted Gatsby’s shoulder with her free hand. “I used to think I needed only one path, but I was foolish. It was never possible. No, dear Gatsby, this is the path for me...the only path I need.”

Gatsby nearly choked. She had quoted the poem directly. She had to be the one! There was no doubt now. Thought he wanted to, he couldn’t tell her now that he knew her secret. How would she feel, a poet and romantic, if her poems had fallen into the hands of someone so blunt? No, his reveal would have to be just as imaginative, just as meaningful. Well, perhaps not to her level, but it had to be better than just an outright statement at a business event. It had to be planned. Jay could hardly find the words to speak anyways.

“Mrs. Buchanan,” he coughed, trying to make use of his constricted throat, “Would it be alright if I visited you sometime soon?” His voice felt too tight, unnatural coming from him. Daisy seemed not to notice his change in behavior. She immediately perked up.

“I would love it!” she gripped his arm, stopping them both in their aimless tracks, “Tomorrow, come for lunch. We live upstate but that shouldn’t be a problem. Tom will be away here in the city but that’s no matter. He never adds to the conversation anyways. My darling cousin is visiting at the moment but he shouldn’t be too much of a bother. Oh please say you can come tomorrow!” Her tone was barely constrained joy, her words blurring together. And yet, she kept her dark whisper, forcing him to lean in to hear her.

“Yes! Tomorrow’s fine!” Gatsby’s voice cracked in his excitement.

Yes. Tomorrow, all would be right. Finally, his search for his poet would be over.

***

  
The Buchanan’s house was immense. Ridiculously large for just the couple and, as Gatsby had later learned last night, their young daughter. And yet there was a clear distinction between the land they owned and pure nature. The lawn was perfectly manicured all the way out to the property line, beautiful flower gardens and too perfect trees. The upkeep alone must’ve cost a fortune. Gatsby rolled down the long, elegant driveway in his sleek yellow sports car. He barely stepped out when Daisy opened the door.

“Mr. Gatsby! Right on time!” She beckoned from the top of the grand staircase. Gatsby nodded with a smile. He hoped that there weren’t any wrinkles on his carefully chosen slacks from the long drive over. “Mrs. Buchanan, thank you so much for having me over!” She laughed lightly and waved away his formality. “Please, call me Daisy.”

Gatsby didn’t know what to make of Daisy. He could tell she was lonely just in the way she had cling to him for amusement last night. But he wasn’t sure what she was looking to get out of him. He was well aware that she was a married woman. True, there had been a time when a more foolish Gatsby fancied he had fallen in love with his poet, but that was impractical...especially since she was a _married woman_. In some ways he still did feel that odd mix of affection and infatuation but that had to be put aside now. She was already taken. He would have to keep his distance for both of their sakes. This afternoon would be as close to crossing the line he would dare go. He just hoped he didn’t forget himself in the moment and didn’t get lost in the euphoria of his finally solved mystery.

Daisy led him onto a back porch where a lunch of gourmet sandwiches had been set up. Already sat at the table, back turned, was a man with his head bent over his lap.

“This is my cousin I mentioned. This is my Nicky,” she patted his shoulders affectionately. Nicky looked up abruptly, taken by surprise at being joined by two more people. Obviously, Daisy had not informed him of her lunch plans. Nick turned around in his seat, jumping up, nearly spilling a large stack of papers in the process.

“It’s nice to meet you,” He coughed, a little red in the face. Gatsby tried not to laugh when Nicky attempted to shake his hand, other arm failing miserably at keeping loose pages from falling.

“Gatsby,” He supplemented while Nicky stooped to pick up the pages.

“What?”

“I’m Gatsby,” he laughed, bending to help Nicky pick up the papers. He handed one over with a kind smile.

“Uh, Nick. Nick Carraway,” Nick stumbled, taking the paper from Gatsby. He stood up and brushed his overgrown bangs behind his ear.

“And what do you do, Nick?”

“Oh! I’m an editor,” he brandished his mess of papers. Nick looked between Gatsby and Daisy, cheeks slightly pink from his blundering.

“Well, I suppose I’ll just leave you two-”

“Nicky! I won’t hear of it! You have to have lunch with us. Mr. Gatsby won’t bite,” she laughed, pushing Nick back into his chair. His blush deepened but nonetheless, he put the papers neatly (as neatly as he could manage) into his bag. Gatsby day across from the two cousins. Daisy went in to grab ice for the glasses, which gave Nick the opportunity to speak.

“I’m sorry, I’m not usually this flustered. Daisy just didn’t tell me she was expecting company,” he rushed, leaning across the table.

Gatsby laughed. “I expected as much. Don’t worry about it.”

Still, Nick seemed determined to worry about it. He kept picking at the hem of his simple t-shirt: blue and worn down to the threads, once clear logos were now faded, unintelligible to the untrained eye. His jeans had ink and paint stains all over them. Poor Nick certainly wasn’t dressed for company. Company of friends, perhaps. But not the company of high class New York business men. Gatsby didn’t mind. He found the relaxed outfit refreshing, true to Nick’s character rather than whatever dolled up version he might have hidden behind if he had been aware of Gatsby’s visit.

Daisy came back with fresh drinks and ice. The resemblance between the two was undeniably there. They both sported thick chocolate curls and soft features. Gatsby had thought Daisy attractive the night before, but now his eyes were continually drawn to Nick. However Nick refused to look up at Gatsby as they began to eat lunch. Eventually, with generous prodding from Daisy, conversation began to flow more easily between the three. They talked and laughed of nonsense. No business. No numbers. It was paradise for Gatsby. The conversation veered toward the cousins expeditions in their teen years.

“Do you remember the time we went to Oxford for a summer?” Daisy tried to silence a snigger. Gatsby’s heart jolted. His mask of ignorant bliss very nearly fell.

“Oh, I remember!” Nick smirked, popping another cucumber slice into his mouth. “That was back when I thought I might want to go to college abroad,” he smiled fondly at the memory. He then turned to Gatsby, “Daisy went on an extended college tour with me. Cambridge. Oxford. The like. We caused our fair share of trouble.” Nick winked at Daisy, which she returned, the both of them laughing. Gatsby found it harder to laugh along. _So Daisy_ had _been to Oxford. That would’ve been the perfect time to plant the poem._ “When did you go?” He wanted to ask, but Daisy had moved on to a different story. Gatsby took a sip of his iced tea. It didn’t matter. He would reveal what he knew soon enough.

After all the drinks were finished, sandwiches too, Daisy declared it too hot to sit outside. Nick and Gatsby full heartedly agreed. They all wandered inside, Daisy leading the way with Nick falling into step with Gatsby. They wandered into one of the Buchanan’s parlors.

“Nicky, could you mix us some drinks?” Daisy plopped onto one the the couches, then aside to Gatsby, “He could’ve been a wonderful mixologist.” Nick nodded to the request and went to the drink stand and busied himself with drinks for the group. Under the cover of clinks of glasses and bottles, Gatsby leaned over to Daisy and whispered.

“I know who you are. And...I found them.”

Daisy tilted her head in confusion, picture perfect smile frozen in place. “What do you mean?” she laughed back nervously. Gatsby clasped his hands in his laugh to resist the urge to reach for one of hers in ernest. “What has become of those days of fireflies and whiskey,” he recited back, his tones dropping. Daisy’s confused smile remained in place. Gatsby tried again.

“Do you see one in thousands? Do you see names like stars?” Nothing. Gatsby was starting to panic now. He was so close to the truth now. And yet, here was the poet, with no recollection of the art that had shaped the course of his life in earlier years. “Mrs. Buchanan, please,” he neglected to lower his voice. Fortunately, Nick was kind enough to pretend not to here the brewing altercation. “You quoted it yourself last night! The path home is broken, too overgrown to find the way back. The path forward doesn’t exist, what once was clear dims to black. All the cords holding me down threaten to break, the strain of years proving to ache!” Daisy was drawing away now, shaking her head. Gatsby almost laughed in anguish. He had to make her remember, had to make her see, make himself see, that it wasn’t all just in his head. His voice began to rise in volume again. Not a shout, but an impassioned cry.

“Let it dim. Let it Break. I cannot vanish. Though my memories tarnish, thought my goals crumble, though my dreams fade, your arms hold me down! Arms I haven’t found, arms I haven’t felt, but arms I will feel! Arms of a You, yet to be met!”

A crash came from by the drink cart, stopping Gatsby in his tracks. Both Daisy and Gatsby whipped their heads round to stare at Nick’s back. He had knocked a glass off of the cart and it had shattered into a million crystals by his feet. Nick said nothing and made no movement. Daisy and Gatsby waited. Then after a shaky breath he began to whisper.

“It is you. Dearest you, darling you, _only_ you. The only path I need, the path to you.”

Gatsby’s breath caught in his breath, his heart beat suddenly stopping as well. And yet, his ears thundered. Daisy looked back and forth quickly between Nick and Gatsby, waiting for answers. But as Nick turned around to face Gatsby, no answers came. The two men held each other’s gaze for the longest time, everything said at once without ever having to open their mouths. It made sense now. Oh god it made _sense_! Gatsby watched the range of emotions pass over Nick’s face.

“When did-”

“Seven years ago.”

Nick balked and started forward, kicking a shard of glass lightly with his foot, “Seven years?!”

Gatsby leaped off the day couch, overjoyed. He had finally found his poet! His darling poet whom he had loved so dearly all those years ago. Now, all of that affection came flooding back as his gazed into Nick’s astonished face. A cough from the corner made both men jump. They had quite forgotten that Daisy was still there.

“Would someone care to explain?” She smiled.

“Not just now, Daisy,” Nick spoke up before Gatsby could even open his mouth, “There are a few things I would like to discuss with Mr. Gatsby.”

“Please,” he said turning back to Nick, “Call me Jay.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that’s a wrap! It may not be a good one, or satisfying one, but it’s a wrap. I needed to just finish this one up because I’ve got quite the beheamoth planned. And not just for Natsby. 
> 
> Don’t be shy! I love talking to you guys (no matter when the fic was posted) and I’m a comment whore. 
> 
> (Also, I never edit so I’m sorry for any mistakes)

**Author's Note:**

> I just really wanted to write romance. Also Fitzgerald. I don’t know what it is, but writing historical figures as characters cracks me up.


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